Lie and tell me you are human.
Grace me with perfection.
Offspring of Nietzsche's teas
what sport fast enough
suits your pulse? Doubtless
you are mean & beatific, machine of paradox.
You look homely as a tank,
oiled god in intricate shoes
downloading a viscous tonic.
I buy the magazine, and you are there -
burnished titanium, whippy carbon-fibre,
geared for an evolution of small improvements.
Deep breather, with your rat-heart pump
your circuitry your poem
isometric kestrel gliding for mice.
Let me grow you like a business,
culture in a vacuum flask
heat-moulded from ancestral scrap
shaped on the wind's lathe, oh legislate
and open sesame you are there.
My laser blunts on you
body jigsawed from a slab.
The rest shall wait, and I fear
your needle, that swoon I thought
immortal.
If I have peaked too early,
sweat and say my lines, will you
lie with me stunning tiger?
Are you mine?

                                                  [Adam Aitken]